


Orphans

by Sohotthateveryonedied



Series: Whumptober 2019 [13]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Crisis (DCU), Loss of Parent(s), Prompt: Tear-Stained
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-16 07:28:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21032504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sohotthateveryonedied/pseuds/Sohotthateveryonedied
Summary: Batman and Robin.Tim is sobbing into Bruce’s chest, shaking with every breath. Bruce doesn’t know what he could possibly say that would do a thing to help, so he doesn’t try. Just holds Tim tight, tries to push the comfort into him through osmosis. Tries not to let his gaze linger on Jack’s wide, lifeless eyes.Orphans.





	Orphans

**Author's Note:**

> Day 14: Tear-Stained

_ Batman and Robin. _  
  
_ Orphans. _

* * *

Bruce can’t help but think, how could it have come to this? Why is it that every good thing he touches turns into tragedy?  
  
Tim.  
  
Good, sweet, _ young _ Tim.  
  
Tragedy.  
  
Jack Drake’s blood has gone cold where it pools on the floor. It’s cold where it soaks into Tim’s clothes, where it covers his hands. Bruce doesn’t know if Tim even notices.  
  
_ How could it have come to this? _  
  
Tim is sobbing into Bruce’s chest, shaking with every breath. Bruce doesn’t know what he could possibly say that would do a thing to help, so he doesn’t try. Just holds Tim tight, tries to push the comfort into him through osmosis. Tries not to let his gaze linger on Jack’s wide, lifeless eyes.  
  
Tim and his father were never close—Bruce knows that much. Their relationship was a constant tug-of-war with no winner, and he can’t count the times Tim showed up to spend the night at the manor because he didn’t want to stay in that empty house while his parents were on some excursion their son wasn’t invited to. But maybe that’s what makes it so horrible.  
  
Jack and Tim had their issues, but they were trying to work through them. Jack was trying to be a decent father, and Tim was trying to open himself up enough to accept the possibility of having a loving family for once. And now that possibility is gone. There’s nothing left; no promises, no “I’ll do better,” no “Dad said we’ll spend time together next weekend.” There’s nothing.  
  
When Bruce hears sirens wailing down the block, he forces himself to pull away just enough so he can look at Tim’s tear-stained face. His eyes are glazed and bloodshot, and Bruce’s heart pangs. “We need to go,” he says as gently as he can.  
  
Tim chokes on a hiccup. “But my—my dad—” He looks back at the body, which brings on a whole new flood of tears.  
  
“I know,” Bruce says. “But we need to leave before the police get here. Come on, I’ve got you.” He helps Tim stand, then takes off his cape and wraps it around Tim’s shoulders, hoping it will help.  
  
Tim looks hollowed out. Like someone opened him up and scooped out all the joy, leaving behind a husk. It hurts to watch.  
  
He squeezes Tim’s arm. “I’ll be right back, all right?” He waits for Tim’s tiny nod, then goes back to the hallway where Tim left his Robin gear and collects the bundle of clothing. Can’t afford to have the police find it.  
  
He returns to the scene and finds Tim right where he left him, halfway between devastated and catatonic. Tim’s eyes don’t leave his father’s corpse, and Bruce moves so that he’s blocking his view. “Tim?”  
  
It’s as if he didn’t hear him. Bruce sighs and without hesitation lifts Tim into his arms, ignoring the blood still on the boy’s hands. Tim doesn’t react aside from letting his head tip and fall against Bruce’s chest. Salty droplets fall on Bruce’s neck.  
  
Bruce is swift but careful as he takes Tim outside before the sirens close in. He bundles him into the front seat, prying Tim’s shaking fingers from the fabric of his suit. He looks no better when Bruce gets into the driver’s side than he did before.  
  
It’s the shock, he knows, but it’s more than that. Something he can’t describe, and yet something he is all too familiar with. He feels it in himself every waking day of his life—ever since that one bad day. He just never wanted it for Tim.  
  
As Bruce starts to car, he feels Tim reach out and grip his arm, seemingly on autopilot. He curls around it like a kid clutching a teddy bear, resting his head on Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce drives one-handed after that.  
  
They leave the flashing red and blue lights behind and drive through Gotham’s silent streets, all the while Bruce wracks his brain for a game plan. The league will have to take the back burner for tonight while he deals with the fallout of this tragedy. The funeral will need to be arranged, too. Not to mention helping Tim cope with the loss.  
  
Should he call someone? Dick, definitely. Maybe Cassandra? Barbara? All of them?  
  
Bruce knows for a fact that Tim has no other close family members other than his stepmother. He has no idea where she is now, though. Besides, she’ll be grieving herself with the loss of her husband, leaving her with no room to spare. Tim is alone.  
  
And Bruce knows he’s not Tim’s father—he’s not Tim’s _ anything, _ really _ . _ But he’s all the kid’s got now, and so he takes him home, (not Tim’s home; not really), and pretends not to notice the tears soaking his shoulder.  
  
They’re almost home when Bruce thinks to call Alfred. _ “Master Bruce?” _ he answers.  
  
“Alfred. I need you to call Jim and have him preserve a crime scene for me. No reporters in, and one touches the evidence until I get there.”  
  
_ “Understood, sir. What’s the address?” _  
  
Bruce tightens his grip on the wheel. “Tim’s father’s house.”  
  
A pause as that sinks in. _ “Is—Is he…” _ Bruce’s silence must be answer enough, for Alfred exhales deeply. _ “Oh. Oh, Master Timothy...I’m so sorry.” _  
  
Tim shudders and presses himself closer to Bruce.  
  
“Just call Jim, okay, Alfred?”  
  
_ “I—Yes, sir, right away.” _ They promptly end the call after that.  
  
The manor comes into view, and Bruce plans. He’ll take Tim inside, get him cleaned up. Console him...how? One would think that by now Bruce has enough experience with tragedy to be adept at comforting a kid whose entire world has collapsed, but he’s coming up empty.  
  
He dares a glance at Tim, whose pale skin reflects in the streetlights. They illuminate the tears on his flushed cheeks, and Bruce’s heart aches. He’s so young. Too young to have to endure such heartbreak. They all were.  
  
When they get inside, Bruce takes Tim straight to the bathroom and helps him scrub the blood from his hands. (His own father’s blood. God, what has their world come to?)  
  
Tim is quiet while Bruce pats his hands dry with a towel. Lingering tears shine on his face, and Bruce wipes them away with his thumbs, giving what he hopes is a reassuring smile.  
  
They relocate to the sofa after that. Tim is too fragile right now to be alone, and honestly? Bruce doesn’t know what else to do other than hold him and let him soak his shirt for as long as he needs to. He wishes Dick were here. He’s better at this kind of stuff.  
  
He’s still wearing his batsuit, but the cowl and cape have been discarded. Bruce pulls Tim close and lets him cry out what’s left, smoothing his hair back the way he used to do to Dick whenever he had a nightmare. “It’s okay,” he murmurs. “It’s going to be okay.”  
  
Tim shakes his head against Bruce’s shoulder, quivering. “It’s my fault,” he whispers. His voice is scratchy, thick.   
  
“Tim...”  
  
“H-He wanted me to quit Robin,” Tim says. “We both knew it was dangerous and he—he wanted me to quit, but I—I _ didn’t.” _ He chokes on his next inhale, letting it out in a cracking sob.  
  
“Tim, _ no. _ Look at me.” He lifts Tim’s chin to look him in the eye, unflinching. “This was _ not _ your fault, okay? You did everything you could.”  
  
“It—It wasn’t—” His sobs pick up and he doesn’t finish, but Bruce knows what he meant. _ It wasn’t enough. _ Bruce can’t find the strength to lie to him, so he says nothing.  
  
As Tim cries, Bruce is struck by memories of holding a young Dick Grayson this way, trying to provide some comfort even though nothing can soothe a canyon of hurt. Snapped pearls to frayed trapeze cables to a boomerang in the chest. None of this is fair.  
  
Over Tim’s shoulder, he sees Alfred come in holding a tray with two steaming cups of tea. His eyes radiate sympathy, and Bruce hates how well he recognizes that look. They’ve been through this more than enough times by now to recognize the dance.  
  
Alfred places the tray on the coffee table. Bruce mouths a _ thank you _ over Tim’s head and Alfred nods before leaving again—off to call backup, he hopes.  
  
Tim has stopped shaking, but the steady stream of tears is unending. “What am I gonna do now?” he says. “There’s nothing—I’ve got _ nothing.” _  
  
Bruce rubs his back. “You’ll stay here. Alfred will make up your room, and we’ll figure it all out.”  
  
Tim hiccups, clinging to Bruce like a child hiding from a storm. “I never— It wasn’t supposed to be me. I wasn’t supposed to lose everything.”  
  
Bruce doesn’t know what to say to that.

* * *

He prepares to leave for the crime scene later that night. Wants to get another look at that note he’d seen on the floor but couldn’t deal with while Tim’s universe was falling apart right in front of him.  
  
He stops by Tim’s room before he leaves. He spent hours before holding Tim and murmuring empty consolations until he eventually passed out, exhausted and drained dry. Bruce stops in the doorway now, peering into the dark room.  
  
Tim is curled in a ball on his mattress wearing a pair of Dick’s hand-me-down pajamas, an untouched glass of water on the nightstand. His eyes are closed, but Bruce knows he’s awake. It’s in the way his chest shakes with tremors. In the way he sniffles with every breath.  
  
The phone on the desk rings, but Tim makes no move to answer it. Neither does Bruce, who keeps to the shadows. A beep, and then Dick’s voice fills the room.  
  
_ “Hey buddy, are you there?” _ Tim doesn’t move. _ “Tim, it’s Dick. I know you’re there.” _ He waits for a moment, then sighs. Bruce can’t see him, but he knows he’s running his hand through his hair. Can imagine his sympathetic expression so clearly. _ “C’mon, Tim, pick up. Pick up…” _  
  
Tim curls up tighter with a sniffle, and the chasm in Bruce’s soul aches.  
  
_ “Please, kiddo, pick up. I know you can hear me, Tim.” _  
  
Batman and Robin and Robin.  
  
_ “Please talk to me, bud, don’t shut me out.” _  
  
Orphans. 

**Author's Note:**

> [Feel free to mosey on down to my Tumblr!](http://sohotthateveryonedied.tumblr.com/)


End file.
